“Well, if you’re allowed to go to him won’t you lie very quiet, and not speak so as to disturb him?” said Harman.

“I’m tired,” said the child, “and I’d like to sleep in his bed.  I used sometimes to do it before, and my father always kept his arms about me.”

His mother’s features became convulsed, and she looked up in mute affliction to heaven; but still, notwithstanding her misery, she was unable to shed one tear.

“Pulse of my heart” (cushla machree), she said, kissing him, “you must have your innocent and loving wish.”  She then gently raised the bed-clothes and placed him beside his father.

The poor pale boy sat up in the bed for about a minute, during which he glanced at the still features of the departed, then at his mother, and then at the pool of blood on the floor, and again he shuddered.  All at once, however, he started and looked about him; but in a manner that betokened delight rather than alarm—­his eyes brightened—­and an expression almost of radiance settled upon his face.  “Mother,” said he, “kiss me, and let Mr. Harman kiss me.”

They both did so, and his poor mother felt her heart relieved, by the happiness depicted on his face.  “Glory be to God,” she exclaimed, “see what a change for the better has come over my blessed child.”

Father Roche looked at Harman, and shook his head—­“Blessed he will be soon,” said he, in a low whisper, “the child is dying.”

The boy started again, and the former serenity lit up his pale features.

“Bryan, you are better, darling of my life; you look a thousand pounds better than you did awhile ago.”

The boy looked into her face and smiled.—–­“I am,” said he, “but did you not hear it?”

“Hear what, jewel of my heart?”

“There it is again;” said he, looking eagerly and delightfully about him, “my father’s voice;—­that’s three times it called, me, but it didn’t come from the bed, although he’s in it.  I will kiss him and then sleep—­but I will miss his arms from about me, I think.”

He then fixed himself beside that loving parent, aided by his mother, and getting his arm around his pulseless neck, he kissed him, and laying down his fair head, he fell asleep in that affecting posture.  There was a solemn stillness for some minutes, and a strange feeling of fear crept over his mother’s heart.  She looked into the eyes of those who were about her, but the looks they returned to her carried, no consolation to her spirit.

“My child,” she exclaimed—­“Oh, my child, what is this?  Bryan, my life—­my light, what ails you?” She stooped, and gently turning him about so as to see his face, she looked keenly into it for a few moments, and there certainly was the same seraphic expression which so lately lit it tip.  Still she felt dissatisfied, till putting her ear to his mouth and her hand to his heart, the woeful truth became known to her.  The guiltless spirit of her fair-haired son had followed, that of his father.